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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29835594">The Villain of Another Story</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingoverthewords/pseuds/wanderingoverthewords'>wanderingoverthewords</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>BioShock 1 &amp; 2 (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Ambiguous Relationships, Broken Bones, During Canon, Hypnotize Big Daddy Plasmid</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 21:40:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>19,042</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29835594</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingoverthewords/pseuds/wanderingoverthewords</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Lamb - while making an example - shows Sinclair there’s a downside to having a Big Daddy as a companion.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Augustus Sinclair &amp; Subject Delta, Augustus Sinclair/Subject Delta</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Villain of Another Story</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Characters: Augustus Sinclair, Subject Delta, Splicers, Sofia Lamb, Eleanor Lamb, Stanley Poole, Big Daddy, Little Sister; mentions of Sander Cohen, Grace Holloway, Andrew Ryan, J. S. Steinman, Jack, Gloria Parson, Harry Parson.</p><p>Pairings: The nature of Sinclair and Delta’s relationship is entirely up to you. Have fun with it.</p><p>Warnings: hypnotism/mind control, use of firearms, death, past forced suicide, vivid description of severely broken bones, blood, gore, violence, vivid description of bones being realigned, alcohol consumption, tobacco usage; mentions of murder, past character death, body mutilation.</p><p>Notes: Small AU(?)-ish thing where Sinclair doesn’t sit on his arse all day in the train. Treat it independently from my last fic like this, though. I know Eleanor pretty much says at the start of the game that Delta can’t be affected by the Hypnotize Big Daddy Plasmid anymore, but I liked this idea too much to ignore it, so just bear with me for a fic, okay? I can only apologise to Augustus Sinclair cause this is gonna suck for him specifically.</p><p>All material belongs to Irrational Games.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After almost losing his life here from the lack of air in a leaky train car, Sinclair would really have liked turning his back on Dionysus Park by now, but Stanley Poole had to throw a wrench into that plan’s works, so he’s stuck here until he and Delta can locate all the Little Sisters and take the ADAM Stanley so desperately wants to keep away from Lamb’s grasp.</p><p>They’ve already found one, and she’s been cured and helped back into her vent; the other two seem elusive, one would think they’d be easier to find. He hasn’t heard the moan of a Big Daddy nor any footsteps that shake the earth in a while.</p><p>Well - none that hadn’t belonged to Delta.</p><p>That’s probably where he’d been going wrong; hard to listen out for telltale noises of a Big Daddy when he’s got a Big Daddy that makes the very same. Delta doesn’t verbalise all that much when compared to his fellow Tin Men, who seem to do it for no reason (while Delta at least does it as an attempt at communication), but his footsteps being so heavy is out of his control. There’s already been one instance of Sinclair believing he’d found the next Daddy and Sister, only to discover it’d just been Delta catching up to him after stopping to retrieve an EVE hypo with Telekinesis.</p><p>Again, his fault, really: how had he not noticed Delta had stopped following him?</p><p>For that reason, Sinclair jogs a little up ahead when they retrace their steps back into Cohen’s Collection, keeping his ears peeled for a little girl’s voice or the hulking steps of her protector.</p><p>There’s something around, in the distance, and he holds a hand out to Delta at the other end of the room.</p><p>“Hold on a second there, chief.”</p><p>Delta looks up, stopping abruptly.</p><p>There’s silence between them as Sinclair tilts his head, finger by his ear as he tries to listen for what it was that he’d thought he’d heard.</p><p>Delta waits patiently for him, and doesn’t seem at all perturbed when Sinclair sighs and shakes his head, dropping his arms to his sides.</p><p>“False alarm, sorry. Thought I heard whisperin’.”</p><p>Delta shrugs it off and continues his slow walk toward Sinclair, trying to be careful to not overshadow any other noise with his footsteps.</p><p>Sinclair walks on, passing by a statue and looking it up and down. He’s never quite understood the fascination behind art like this, least of all anything belonging to Cohen. He hasn’t had anything to do with him since Cohen had gone batshit crazy (well - more than usual) and Fort Frolic had been turned into a no-go area, and Sinclair had had to mourn the loss of one Sinclair Spirits location - finest chain of bars to sample some liquor and cheese at, discounts for those who took up accommodation at the Sinclair Deluxe, <em>especially</em> the folks that relied on a drink to get themselves out of a slump - to that nutcase.</p><p>Seems like everyone has enjoyed taking his property from him: his bar, his hotel, his correctional facility. The only thing that softens the blow is that he’s going to be showing Rapture his back very soon, and he can recreate his businesses up top - and this time, he’ll have a big guy like Delta to act as muscle in the case of anybody showing him lip.</p><p>(Of course, Delta might just be a little too nice to actually <em>be</em> a thuggish bodyguard for Sinclair, but he can <em>act</em> the part. Stand there, look menacing, doesn’t even have to say a word. After all, if he’s half as big as an ordinary man as he is as a Big Daddy, nobody will want to mess with him, and thus they won’t want to mess with Sinclair.)</p><p>For now, though, they have some Little Sisters to find.</p><p>Delta keeps his distance, doing his best to keep his own noises from interspersing with any other Big Daddy’s around them; his careful attempt at tiptoeing comes to an abrupt stop when he looks over at the fallen El Ammo Bandito machine near him, as Delta swears he’d just heard it giggle.</p><p>Sinclair hasn’t seemed to notice.</p><p>Delta is about to let out a whale-like moan to get his attention when there comes a burst of movement behind the machine as a Splicer jumps up out of hiding, their grin wide under their bunny mask.</p><p>Before Delta can lift his rivet gun and aim, the Splicer’s arm is pulled back; there’s something in their hand.</p><p>“A blast from the past for ya!” The Splicer yells excitedly and throws the object at him, and Delta stumbles as his vision goes green.</p><p>Immediately, he recognises this feeling that’s overwhelming him, the sensation of suddenly being so frightened yet so light and airy at the same time. It’s almost tempting to fall victim to it immediately, something that will take the weight off of him after all this time walking the halls of Rapture, but he knows better and he <em>remembers</em> what had happened last time, and so he roars out in panic and falls to his knees, hands going to the porthole on his helmet.</p><p>There’s a shot of a gun and he hears somebody fall to the ground with a guttural grunt, and deep down there’s the panic that the Splicer’s just taken out Sinclair while Delta had been distracted. He prepares to cry out, but then there’s quick rustling in the sand and the <em>click-clack</em> of fancy soles on tile as footsteps approach, and he sees Sinclair’s wingtip shoes come into view.</p><p>He’d breathe a sigh of relief if he could.</p><p>Thank God.</p><p>“Chief?!”</p><p>There’s a hand on his wrist, a panicked touch.</p><p>“Kid, are you okay? What happened, what’d they hit you with?”</p><p>Delta makes no reply, no whale noise or gesture, as he’s too busy trying to fight off the feeling enveloping him - <em>(“There we are. He’s perfectly safe now.”)</em> - tries to keep a level head, tries to remain himself, don’t listen to anybody’s commands, don’t do it - <em>(“Now…kneel, please.”)</em> - but it’s hard to hold on, it’s <em>hard</em> because he feels so <em>light now</em> and he’d been so <em>tired</em> and it’s so <em>refreshing,</em> but he’s <em>trying</em> <em>-</em> <em>(“Remove your helmet.”)</em> - he doesn’t want to go through this again, he doesn’t want to die, he’s scared, he’s <em>so scared,</em> Sinclair, <em>help him,</em> he’s <em>frightened</em> <em>-</em> <em>(“Now…take the pistol. Place it against your head.”)</em> - he can’t die again, he can’t, he can’t go through that again, Vita-Chambers be <em>damned,</em> he still needs to get to Eleanor, and he needs to protect Sin - <em>(“Fire.”)</em> <em>-</em> <em>he can’t</em> <em>-</em> <em>(“DADDY!”) -</em></p><p>“Can ya hear me? Chief, what’s wrong?”</p><p>One of Delta’s hands shakily comes away from the frosted glass of his helmet and moves until it finds Sinclair, presses to his belly and gives him a small push; though it’s usually pressed to Sinclair’s chest, it’s the same gesture Delta gives to him when he wants him to stand back, for one reason or another, but this time it’s an emergency, so he uses the last of his self-control to then repeatedly wave his arm out at Sinclair to emphasise that he wants him away <em>now.</em></p><p>
  <em>Get away. Get away. Not safe here. Get away. Not safe here. Not safe here. Danger. Danger. Leave me. Can’t protect you now. Away. Away.</em>
</p><p>“Oh…Oh, <em>no…”</em> Sinclair says, stepping backwards slowly, realisation seeping in when he sees the green colour of Delta’s visor. “…Kid? Can you hear me? You gotta fight it, understand? You gotta fight -”</p><p>“Delta.”</p><p>The voice comes from above them, over the sound system, and Sinclair stops to look up at the ceiling, the colour beginning to drain from his face as the pieces of the puzzle slide into place.</p><p>“Can you hear me, Delta?” Lamb’s voice comes next. “If you can…stand, please.”</p><p>He feels so…<em>light.</em> And the words are so…<em>tempting.</em></p><p>Delta, with no fuss or hesitation, gets to one knee, then rises to his feet, at full height before Sinclair, whom he towers over.</p><p>Sinclair watches him do so with a nervous, hazel gaze.</p><p>“I suppose you think I’m going to repeat the past, Delta,” Lamb says as giggles of excitement begin bubbling up around the pair of men, and Sinclair looks around him to see Splicers - Leadhead and Spider alike - stepping and falling from the shadows to watch them closely, “that I’m going to have you take up another pistol to end your own life with.”</p><p>Sinclair looks to Delta, eyes wide.</p><p>A Leadhead Splicer stumbles out from the ring forming around them, holding out a pistol to Delta, who takes no notice of them. They wave it in the air, grinning savagely behind their crow mask.</p><p>“But I’m not.”</p><p>The Splicer’s grin falls and they wave the gun at Delta in a pathetic attempt to convince him, all too excited to see a Big Daddy put itself down.</p><p>A Spider Splicer knocks the gun out of their hand and slaps them upside the head to tell them off, and the Leadhead goes crying back into the audience.</p><p>“You see, Delta, I’m not controlling you right now to put you in any danger, but to teach you a lesson. You’ve walked through Rapture, attempting to undo the work of the Family by stealing ADAM, manipulating the ideals of Grace to turn her against me. All in a <em>valiant effort</em> to reunite with a daughter who isn’t even <em>yours.</em> Delta…Eleanor worries for you. She does not wish for you to come to harm, it upsets her to see you treated just as you are: an enemy of the Family. As a creature of your making, I don’t suppose you understand how it feels, to be perceived as the <em>villain</em> by somebody you watch over. So I’m going to show you.”</p><p>The words hang in the air, thickening the tension that had already surrounded over them just from being in Rapture; Sinclair’s heart is pounding against his ribs, threatening to break them because <em>who else does Delta watch over but -</em></p><p>“Listen to me, Delta.”</p><p>“No, no -” Sinclair shakes his head, all but stumbling toward Delta, waving a hand to try and get his attention. “Don’t listen to her, chief, listen to <em>me.</em> Just - don’t do <em>anythin’,</em> you understand? It’ll wear off eventually, just don’t <em>do</em> anythin’ -”</p><p>“Delta,” Lamb’s voice returns, and Sinclair swears he can hear delight in her tone, some sadistic enjoyment in watching Sinclair trying to do the impossible.</p><p>The Plasmid’s been planted, Delta is hypnotised - and it hadn’t been Sinclair to orchestrate it.</p><p>“Do you see Augustus Sinclair there before you?”</p><p>There’s a beat where nothing happens, then Delta’s helmet tilts forward, the green glow of the porthole pointing right at Sinclair.</p><p>He’s usually so confident, but even men like Sinclair understand when they can’t talk themselves out of a situation, no matter their charm or endearing accent, and Delta has proved himself unreachable now while that Plasmid is in effect. He won’t listen to Sinclair, so Sinclair doesn’t speak, he just steps back - once, twice, three times - as Delta stares in silence at him.</p><p>A cold sweat settles over Sinclair’s skin as, suddenly, this is no longer Subject Delta, the Big Daddy who pats Sinclair on the head, who helps him to his feet when he’s fallen, who stands between him and danger. This is…just a Big Daddy, one of Lamb’s slaves, a mindless creature whose purposes are to break things, kill murderous drug addicts and collect ADAM with the Little Sisters.</p><p>The Splicers snicker; Sinclair’s gaze darts to them, then back to Delta.</p><p>He steps back - away, away, away.</p><p>“Get him.”</p><p>With no warning, Delta begins to stomp forward, toward him, and Sinclair almost trips over his own feet as he turns his back on Delta -</p><p><em>“Run,</em> Sinclair!” A Splicer calls out mockingly, laughing at him. <em>“Run!”</em></p><p>Good God, does he.</p><p>Blood rushing in his ears, Sinclair bolts away from the scene, shoving his way passed two Splicers, who grin in his face as he nears them. Lamb’s circle of slaves breaks easily and allow Sinclair through, and they so <em>happily</em> part further for Delta to go as well.</p><p>Sinclair sprints up the small staircase to the double doors, shoes slapping against the wet tiles of the freshly-drained park, sweat clinging to him and heart pounding. There’s a steady <em>thump-thump-thump</em> behind him and a green glow that washes over him in the dimness of the area, and that’s all the motivation he needs to ignore how his legs already feel wobbly, the pure panic wearing him down to the bones.</p><p>He just needs to reach the train station, get into the train car and keep the door shut behind him. If Delta tries to break in, Sinclair will go from car to car if he has to, to get away from him. Eventually, the Plasmid will wear off, so he’s just got to keep the distance between them.</p><p>“Kid!” Sinclair calls behind him, even though he knows it won’t work. “You <em>don’t</em> wanna do this! You gotta <em>fight</em> it!”</p><p>He knows Delta <em>is</em> probably fighting himself inside; the big guy wouldn’t hurt him on any other occasion. The way Delta roars at oncoming threats towards Sinclair, it’s almost like he’s offended at the very idea of his companion coming to harm, so he knows Delta - the <em>real</em> Delta, not this thug Lamb has turned him into - is pulling on the reins, trying to get this iron bull away from Sinclair.</p><p>Sinclair races into the carousel room, passed which is the tunnel that eventually leads to the train station, so in the grand scheme of things he’s getting close.</p><p>There’s a deep puddle right in the entrance of the room that Sinclair is forced to borderline wade through, soaking the bottoms of his trousers, getting into his shoes and wetting his socks, making him cringe. The water slows him down slightly while his heartbeat only picks up speed; to add insult to injury, there’s an oil spill straight afterwards that Sinclair loses his footing in, shoes slipping, and he goes tumbling down into the spill left bicep-first.</p><p>Sinclair grunts with pain as he hits the ground, hearing the Splicers laugh at him from where they’re peeking in from the other room. In the back of his mind, he momentarily mourns the loss of a clean shirt, since the shoulder and upper sleeve of his button-up have now been splashed with the oil, but he’s got bigger problems right now: Delta is walking through the water behind him, so he needs to go.</p><p>Sinclair scrambles to his feet, slipping momentarily on the oil again before darting away.</p><p>There’s another puddle right afterwards, this one thankfully shallower than the last but still of no comfort in the way it soaks Sinclair’s clothes, and then Sinclair’s heading for the door that will lead to the maintenance access.</p><p>Delta follows him the entire way passed the ride, boots stomping in a fast walk, not a run.</p><p>It’s a good thing Delta doesn’t feel the need to charge like Big Daddies are prone to do when they’re targeting someone because then he’d be - well, he was going to think ‘fucked’, but he supposes he’d just be dead, crushed against the wall by Delta’s weight.</p><p>That’s probably <em>why</em> Delta hasn’t done that: Lamb has ordered him to collect, not to kill. That’s the only saving grace here.</p><p>Sinclair stops as the door’s lock rotates, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet as he impatiently tells it to “Come on, <em>come on,”,</em> then the door slides upwards and he goes to run, only for a Spider Splicer to drop down in front of him, baring sharp teeth and brandishing a sickle.</p><p>They’ve clearly had the same idea as him, says the look on their face as they silently dare Sinclair to try and pass. The train can’t save him if he isn’t in it.</p><p>Sinclair skids to a stop. He whips his head around to check how close Delta is behind him, then turns on his heel and hurries to climb the stairs leading to the Piano Bar.</p><p>Delta stops after he crosses the second puddle, looks to check Sinclair’s new path, then robotically turns and goes to follow him up the stairs.</p><p>Fuck it - distance is distance, with or without the train. He just needs to stay out of Delta’s reach. He tries to think if there’s a spot he could get to that Delta will be too big to fit in, a vent or a cubby hole somewhere. He doesn’t doubt that the brainwashed Big Daddy will try to break in or attempt to just reach in and drag him out, wherever he hides, but it’s better than being out in the open, with Splicers and every possibility of something going wrong.</p><p>Something does, for as Sinclair arrives at the top of the stairs and reaches to open the door, another Spider Splicer drops down beside him to shock him into a stumble, jumps up into the air, and kangaroo-kicks Sinclair right in the chest.</p><p>A horrible noise - some fusion of a cough and choke - explodes from Sinclair’s throat as the air is knocked from him and he goes falling, heel catching on the broken couch behind him and tipping him backwards. The railing that lines the stairs and small balcony crumbles against his back as he hits it, so he has nothing to stop him from crashing down to the floor at the balcony’s base. The tiles are covered in sand by now, but it’s enough of the stuff to be firm, and so his spine and skull still hurt when they smack into it, pieces of rusty metal thumping down around his head.</p><p>Sinclair suddenly feels like he’s trapped inside the leaking train car again, separated from Delta by force, suffocating, gasping for air as he tells Delta that he’ll hang in there, Delta just needs to make sure he’s ready before he drains the park. This time, however, undoing his tie and loosening his collar won’t help, nor will Delta’s compassionate hurry to get to the pumping station before Sinclair falls victim to circumstance.</p><p>Dizziness sweeps over him, he almost wants to pass out, either from hitting his head or from how suddenly the air had left him, and he lays there coughing. He feels as though he could cough up a rib, let alone a lung.</p><p>However, Sinclair is snapped back to his senses when a green light shines over him, and he double-takes at Delta as the Big Daddy stands beside him and reaches one large hand down to grab him.</p><p>Sinclair rolls before it can touch him, coughing still as he gets to his hands and knees and scrambles across the floor like a newborn kitten trying to walk, clawing at the sand to find purchase.</p><p>Delta watches him move, then stoically takes his hand back and follows.</p><p>Sinclair makes his way over to the carousel, his mind fuzzy and unable to map out a route to take, hoping at least to weave his way through the animal-shaped seats in an effort to slow Delta down.</p><p>His plan very quickly unfolds as he clambers onto the first ring of the fallen, tilted ride, ducking and crawling under a gazelle-shaped seat, and Delta only rips it out of place and throws it away like it’s nothing, thus unblocking his path.</p><p>The move adds to Sinclair’s panic and he stumbles in his crawl; he lets out a sound that should’ve been a proclamation of the Lord’s name, but comes out as an awkward, coughing yell. His stumble does him in and he abandons the crawl to do it backwards instead, dragging himself, palms slapping against the metal floor behind him, heels digging in with each drag. He stares up at Delta, brow furrowed, teeth clenched between coughs, watching as Delta continues to stomp toward him, how the distance between them is shrinking.</p><p>Before he even realises it, he backs himself into the compartment in the middle of the carousel, a complete accident.</p><p>Sinclair’s back hits the wall and he looks over his shoulder, realises what he’s done, and almost curses aloud as he looks back up and finds Delta towering over him, glaring down at him with that green-glowing porthole.</p><p>Sinclair is desperate now, and in Rapture it’s you or someone else, so his shaking hand goes to the holster by his arm and slips his gun free.</p><p>“I’m <em>sorry,</em> kid,” he says, genuinely regretful, as he thumbs back the hammer and lifts his arm to point the gun right at the window in Delta’s helmet.</p><p>Delta stares in response, which - for someone with no visible face - is the extent of his reactions. He can only imagine what Delta is thinking, trapped inside himself and seeing Sinclair point his weapon at him.</p><p>Sinclair’s finger wraps around the trigger, he wills himself to pull it - and he doesn’t.</p><p>“Delta,” Lamb says over them, “he will not fire at you. Take his hand.”</p><p>Delta reaches his left hand out, towards Sinclair’s right.</p><p>As his fingers brush over it, Sinclair’s gun goes off, sudden enough that even Sinclair, who had unconsciously pulled the trigger in a moment of blind panic, cries out in surprise. The bullet ricochets off of the side of Delta’s helmet with a <em>ping</em> and Delta gives no reaction, not even as dust falls down behind his shoulder as the bullet embeds itself into the underside of the carousel’s top.</p><p>The gun falls from Sinclair’s grasp as Delta’s closes around his hand, fingers shaking too much to keep hold of it, the weapon clattering to the floor beside Sinclair’s leg.</p><p>Delta’s fingers are a cage over his own hand, strong and unmoving, trapping him. He’s not been ordered to do any more, so he holds Sinclair’s hand firmly, keeping his arm outstretched for him.</p><p>“Now - chief -” Sinclair stammers out.</p><p>“Lift him,” Lamb says.</p><p>Delta does just that: he steps backwards twice to pull Sinclair out of the cramped compartment, then slowly rises back up to full height, bringing Sinclair with him, forcing Sinclair off of his backside. He raises his arm, picking Sinclair off of the ground, raising him until they see eye-to-eye.</p><p>Sinclair’s legs automatically kick as his feet leave the floor, shoes hitting against Delta’s legs. His other hand comes up, trying to find purchase on Delta’s wrist, but the angle is awkward and his hand slips. He’s left dangling by his hand, his wrist and shoulder clicking at the joints, muscles of his arm beginning to ache at holding his weight.</p><p>Sinclair clenches his teeth, hissing in pain, as he looks up at where Delta has captured him, then he looks into Delta’s porthole. He sees nothing but a green glow, though he swears he can feel eyes on him, and he can’t tell if the look he’s being given is from the hypnotised Delta or the real Delta.</p><p>His hearts pounds, faster, harder, against his ribs.</p><p>He’s at the mercy of a Big Daddy, <em>him,</em> of all people - the universe must be <em>laughing</em> at him. Rapture definitely is.</p><p>“Now…Delta,” Lamb says, purposefully slow, drawing it out. “…Crush it.”</p><p>“What?” spills out of Sinclair’s mouth, head turning to look up at the ceiling, then he looks to Delta with the same, wide-eyed gaze.</p><p>Delta is still, doesn’t make a noise nor move a muscle.</p><p>
  <em>He doesn’t want to do this, he doesn’t want to do this, he doesn’t want to do this, he doesn’t want to do this, he doesn’t want to do this, he doesn’t want to do this, he doesn’t want to do this -</em>
</p><p>Against his own fist, wrapped firmly in Delta’s, Sinclair feels Delta’s fingers begin to shake, the real Delta fighting from inside, trying to stop himself from closing his fist, from crushing Sinclair’s hand like he’s been ordered to.</p><p>
  <em>He doesn’t want to do this, he doesn’t want to do this, he doesn’t want to do this, he doesn’t want to do this, he doesn’t want to do this, he doesn’t want to do this, HE DOESN’T WANT TO DO THIS, HE DOESN’T WANT TO DO THIS -</em>
</p><p>Then, slowly, Delta’s fist begins to close, and he begins to <em>squeeze.</em></p><p>The pressure comes first to Sinclair’s knuckles as Delta’s fingers start to tighten over them, pressing in, Sinclair’s fingers pushing against the metal ring on Delta’s palm. Delta’s gloves have always had a certain heaviness to them - he knows from when Delta would pat his head, even with how gently he does it - but now he feels the full weight of one of them against his own hand.</p><p>That pressure mounts and the pain seeps in, and Sinclair’s expression crumples. His body shakes, wanting away from the pain, instincts telling him to wrestle his hand free and run, but Delta’s grip is too strong, and he can only raise his left hand and grab at Delta’s, which itself takes three tries.</p><p>His fingertips tuck between his hand and Delta’s and he begins to try and pull, try to loosen Delta’s grasp, but the angle is too awkward to even get a proper grip on it, and Delta is far too strong, so Sinclair’s attempt at a tug becomes nothing more than a hold, stopping himself from dangling by only one hand as his legs kick.</p><p>“Chief,” he gasps out, “chief, <em>don’t</em> do this -”</p><p>He’s cut off by his own whimper of pain as Delta’s fingertips <em>dig</em> into the back of his hand, the circular pads of metal there leaving marks that will bruise for sure, and Delta’s palm now becomes a wall, the very one that Sinclair’s fingers are steadily getting <em>squashed</em> against; Delta’s entire <em>hand</em> might as well be cement, encasing him, impossible to move or get away from.</p><p>Bit by bit, his fingers are forced to curl against Delta’s palm, moving without his permission, as the Big Daddy continues to follow orders. His nails begin to stab into his palm, he can feel the edge of each one digging into his skin, stinging and no doubt leaving wounds for him to find later, when this is all over.</p><p>Each digit has begun to hurt as Delta’s hand presses down forcefully, his palm determined to meet his fingers, Sinclair’s own hand being the blockade stopping them from doing so.</p><p>His nails are beginning to cut now, burying into his skin, and he has no doubt blood has begun to bead in the slits they’re being pushed deeper into as Delta has now forced his hand into a tight fist.</p><p>Sinclair hisses and he attempts to tug again at Delta’s hand, trying his damnedest to wrench it off of him, but Big Daddies had never been made to be <em>easy</em> to take down, especially not when it’s been given an order to harm.</p><p>His fist is squeezed tighter and tighter until it finally happens: the first <em>crack</em> sounds out from one of his joints, and Sinclair’s mouth falls open to let out a panicked cry of pain, which he quickly bites in half as he clenches his teeth and sucks air in through them.</p><p>Right under his glove, Delta feels Sinclair’s finger break.</p><p>Sinclair’s left hand slips from atop Delta’s, jerking his own body downwards; he’s left to dangle again, legs kicking. The soles of his shoes lay upon Delta’s thighs; he tries to find purchase on them to stand on something, to stop himself from just hanging in place, and he <em>scrambles</em> to do so as searing pain spreads through his right hand, his instincts kicking back in. He wants to wiggle free, he wants to run the hell away, he wants nothing to do with this situation, but Delta holds him too tightly, and his shoes can’t find a grip on Delta’s legs and slip easily, leaving him to hang again.</p><p>His fist is impossibly tight in Delta’s, more so than any human hand should be, filling with sweat and blood, the salt in the former causing the cuts bringing forth the latter to burn, which is just another layer of hurt.</p><p>Another <em>crack</em> sounds out, a horrible crumpling noise, and Sinclair lets out a howl of pain, cut off by another as two more bones are broken.</p><p>“Kid! <em>Stop!”</em> He almost chokes on the words, suddenly feeling sick, deep in his stomach. He punches at Delta’s hand - once, twice, three times.</p><p>Delta makes no move to do so, he gives no reaction. He just continues squeezing, harder and harder.</p><p>Laughter is forming around them, and Sinclair is distantly aware that their Splicer audience is returning to watch the carnage; they cheer whenever another <em>crack</em> or <em>snap</em> sounds out from under Delta’s glove and laugh whenever Sinclair can’t keep in his screams of agony.</p><p>“Pop Goes the Weasel!” one shouts, and it becomes a chant amongst them.</p><p>He feels his fingers crumbling beneath Delta’s grasp, the pain unbearable, each one going out with a noise that makes Sinclair want to vomit; his nails cut deeper into his palm and the lacerations sting horribly. There are tears in his eyes, but he refuses to let them fall; he’d hated being seen in a state of vulnerability back in Rapture’s heyday, he’d be downright disgusted if Lamb or any of her fucking Splicers see him like that. It’s bad enough that he can’t keep back his whimpers and shrieks of pain, but he can’t help it, it’s just too much, it’s all too <em>much.</em></p><p><em>“Kid…!”</em> Sinclair practically sobs, pathetically trying to grab hold of Delta’s hand in his free one again, fingers brushing and sliding over Delta’s arm, head tilted downwards and eyes squeezed tightly shut.</p><p>Sweat is a thick layer on his skin, wetting his shirt and making it stick, creating patches on the fabric. Each break of a bone feels like a bomb going off in his hand, the distant <em>pops</em> under the skin as another bone splinters and a joint slides out of place.</p><p>His throat begins to feel raw as a scream is ripped out of him with each break; he tries to bite them back or hide them in his own arm, but not every one gets muffled. The Splicers around him love to hear them, and underneath the sickly agony that clouds his mind, Sinclair is mortified.</p><p>Sinclair dares to look up when he feels something wet trailing down his right hand, at first wondering if their day is about to get worse by a burst pipe or a crack in the ceiling that will let the ocean reclaim Dionysus Park, but there is no water - there is only blood, for Sinclair’s skin has split.</p><p>It seeps out from under Delta’s fingers, dribbling down Sinclair’s hand, dirtying his cufflink and soaking into his shirt sleeve, adding blots of red amongst the translucent stains of sweat. The drops that don’t make it to his sleeve drip down to the floor, spots of liquid life laying amongst the seaweed underneath him and Delta, remains of the flood that had once wrecked the park.</p><p>Where his hand had been, there is only agony and ongoing numbness. He can’t feel his fingers, he can’t identify each individual digit, it’s like every part of his hand is fusing together into one numb lump of flesh. The peek he gets of them under Delta’s hand shows him that they’re now red and purple, their original colour lost amongst the bruising and the breaks and the blood.</p><p>“Kid, please, I’m <em>beggin’</em> ya, <em>stop…!”</em> he shakily says, coming out in nothing but a mutter, as his left hand weakly paws at Delta’s chest.</p><p>He doesn’t believe he’s ever begged before. People begged to <em>him,</em> back in the day. Usually about money - if he could loan some, if he could spare some, if he could let them hold off on payment for just one week more, they’ll pay him back soon.</p><p>Now, here he is, dangling off a Big Daddy’s hand, pleading with it to let him go. How the mighty have <em>fallen.</em></p><p>There are two distinct <em>snaps</em> and the agony flares specifically in his palm, and he can almost swear it caves in. He can’t even scream anymore, his hand is just numbing more and more by the second.</p><p><em>“Delta…!”</em> Sinclair cries out, voice cracking.</p><p>To his absolute horror, two thin tears leak out of his eyes and trail down his cheeks; try as he desperately might to keep them within their ducts, they’re there, and the Splicers have definitely seen them, for they laugh harder and continue to chant.</p><p>
  <em>“Pop Goes the Weasel! Pop Goes the Weasel! Pop Goes the Weasel!”</em>
</p><p>The energy is leaving him, he can’t kick or grab at Delta anymore; he just lets himself dangle by his hand, feeling like his shoulder’s going to pop and his arm will come off. Getting more tired by the second, he simply can’t do it anymore.</p><p>He…He just wants to sleep. Or puke. One of the two. Both. Both sounds good.</p><p>There’s something…quite horrible in the way his first time calling Delta by his name just happens to be now.</p><p>Deep down inside of him, under all the mind control, Delta wants to cry.</p><p>He wants to rip his own hand away from Sinclair, he wants to make him safe again; he wants a Plasmid that will allow time travel so he can go back and avoid ever being hit with the Hypnotize Big Daddy Plasmid in the first place. He wants to just continue their trek through the park, find the Sisters, get the ADAM, complete their deal with Stanley Poole, and get the hell out of here so they can resume their journey to Eleanor.</p><p>“Delta,” Lamb’s voice returns at last, “take his other hand. Lift it.”</p><p>
  <em>Oh, Jesus Christ, no.</em>
</p><p>Delta’s hand moves down to fulfil his orders, and Sinclair weakly pulls his free hand away, trying to hide it behind his back, but it’s not like he has any option to run away this time, so Delta easily reaches around him and grabs it. His large fingers wrap around Sinclair’s left hand and he lifts it up to join the other one, above Sinclair’s head, and Sinclair doesn’t even try and stop him.</p><p>“No…no…” he mutters instead, defiant to the end despite practically sobbing, shaking his head as he anticipates the agony to come to the other hand now. He’s tired, but he’ll be screaming again when Delta starts to break this hand too.</p><p>“Crush it, Delta,” Lamb says.</p><p>Sinclair makes a noise akin to a whimper as Delta’s fingers shake against his hand again, the real Delta fighting desperately from within, but he’s too far gone now and so his fingers begin to press, to start the process of breaking.</p><p>Sinclair lifts his head, staring into Delta’s porthole, his throat too dry, a lump is lodged in there that he can’t swallow.</p><p>Delta has full view of Sinclair’s sweat-drenched, teary face, and it’s killing him that he can’t just <em>let go of his hands.</em></p><p>He <em>must</em> let go of his hands.</p><p>He <em>has</em> to.</p><p>He -</p><p>
  <em>“Father!”</em>
</p><p>The world fades away as Eleanor’s voice bursts into his mind, her horrified tone bringing an ache to his heart, making him feel even more ashamed of himself than he already is.</p><p>
  <em>“Father, let go! Don’t listen to Mother’s words, listen to mine! You’re hurting him! Let go! Let go of him, Father!”</em>
</p><p>Her voice disappears in a flash, like it always does, and Sinclair returns before him, beaten and exhausted and on the verge of passing out, dangling like limp string in his grasp, face blotted with sweat and tears, and blood travelling in rivulets down his wrist.</p><p>And the light that washes over him is yellow, for Delta’s visor is back to its original colour.</p><p>It’s like someone has clicked their fingers in front of his face, breaking the hypnotism, clearing the fog on his brain, and Delta snaps back to reality. With a stumble as he regains control, he opens his hands and Sinclair goes crashing to the floor, crying out as he falls.</p><p><em>“Jesus - goddamn -”</em> Sinclair mutters in the middle of a hiss, turning his back to Delta by rolling onto his side and squeezing his eyes shut, broken hand cradled desperately to his chest, his left hand clutching at his right forearm. He’s shaking all over, wracked with pain and panic.</p><p>Delta lets out an alarmed rumble from inside his helmet and drops to one knee, using one hand to carefully roll Sinclair over onto his back.</p><p>Sinclair’s expression is scrunched up, head tilted back, his skin soaked with sweat and tears; his hand is stuck as a half fist, trembling violently against his chest. The blood from his broken skin glistens in the light, covering an alarming amount of Sinclair’s hand, and his fingers are purpling and swelling already.</p><p>Delta doesn’t know what to do in response, his hands hover over Sinclair, trying to figure out how to make it right, how to minimise Sinclair’s pain.</p><p>Sinclair’s eyes open to slivers and his gaze lazily travels to the left, behind Delta.</p><p>“Chief,” he says tiredly, “watch out.”</p><p>Delta perks up and turns, then stumbles to the side just in time to dodge the incoming ball of another Hypnotize Big Daddy Plasmid, which shatters and stains the floor neon green.</p><p><em>“Shit,”</em> he hears a Splicer hiss.</p><p>Before another attempt can be made, Delta is facing the mass of Splicers that had watched him crush Sinclair’s hand, that had stood there and <em>laughed</em> as his companion had begged him to stop, that had made Sinclair’s agony a huge joke to enjoy amongst themselves, and he’s roaring and drawing his machine gun.</p><p>Bullets fly and Splicers die, shaking and falling when multitudes of bullets strike them in the chest and in the head. Flames are cast with Incinerate! and any Splicer who manages to get closer to him is impaled and violently ripped apart from the inside by Delta’s drill.</p><p>Behind Delta, Sinclair’s eyes are closed and he’s gone limp.</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>He must’ve passed out at some point, for when he opens his eyes next, he’s sitting up, a large hand is on the centre of his back to prop him, and a finger is prodding repeatedly at his cheek. He hears above him a desperate noise that sounds exactly like that of the Big Daddies that would knock and call for Little Sisters that will never come out of their vents, for they’ve long-since been cured.</p><p>It takes a moment for Sinclair to rise from sleep, and he does so slowly, eyes opening to slits and waving his left hand at the finger that’s poking him until it stops.</p><p>“Alright, alrigh’,” he says, slurring slightly, “I’m up, I’m up.”</p><p>There’s a rumble above him that actually sounds glad, if rumbles can sound that way, and Sinclair looks up into the yellow, frosted glass of Delta’s helmet.</p><p>“Oh…Hey, kid. When did…you get here?”</p><p>Delta moans inside his helmet, which almost sounds like a whine, but that can’t be right. Big Daddies don’t whine, do they?</p><p>He prods twice more at Sinclair’s cheek, nudging it into tilts with each poke.</p><p>“What…?” Sinclair asks, left hand coming up to loosely grasp Delta’s finger and move it away, his mind spinning for a moment before he looks down at his lap, where his right hand rests atop his thigh, and it’s bloody and painful and still curled into a half-fist, fingertips shaking slightly from the instinct to move but the inability to do so.</p><p>Sinclair blinks a few times to clear his head, staring at the broken limb all the while. As reality returns to him, so does feeling, and the pain really starts to hit him then.</p><p>Sinclair’s expression scrunches, wincing and hissing as he tries to keep his manners and not curse up a storm. He’s doing so for his own benefit; he doubts Delta would judge him for spitting a few adult words out.</p><p>“Oh…Oh, <em>hell…”</em> He looks up at Delta, brow furrowed. “I’ve got to be honest, chief, I-I was hopin’ that had been a bad dream.”</p><p>Delta lets out another whining sound. Clearly, so had he.</p><p>Sinclair wills his heart to calm down and for his breath to slow; panicking won’t help in this situation, no matter how much he’d like to scream and ask what the <em>hell</em> that had been for. He can’t ask about what had he done to Lamb to deserve this because he <em>remembers</em> what he had done to her, but Christ, why <em>this?</em> Hadn’t it been enough to take Persephone from him and force him into hiding? Why make Delta do this to him?</p><p>He sucks in a deep breath, lets it out in a slow exhale, then swallows thickly and looks up at Delta.</p><p>“Help me up, son,” he says, holding his free hand up for Delta to take.</p><p>Delta flinches, like the idea shocks him, and it dawns on Sinclair that Delta might now think he doesn’t want the Big Daddy anywhere near him, after he’d just spent a good few minutes reducing his bones to crumbs.</p><p>Nevertheless, he takes Sinclair’s hand, his other staying on Sinclair’s back to help balance him as Sinclair pushes himself up, weight pressed on Delta’s palm.</p><p>Delta rises to his feet beside him, holding him like Sinclair will fall apart if he doesn’t keep him together.</p><p>Sinclair <em>feels</em> like he could fall apart.</p><p>He hisses and looks down at his ruined hand, grimacing at the sight of it. That nauseating feeling rises in his gut and he swallows down the bile that’s rising in his throat. He gives himself a task to distract himself: his gun is still on the ground, so he picks it up and shakily returns it to its holster, which takes four tries, since the angle is odd and he’s using his non-dominant hand.</p><p>Delta lets out a moan and Sinclair looks up at him to find out what he’s trying to communicate.</p><p>The big guy’s pointing at the doorway that leads off into the tunnel, and Sinclair understands this as him asking a question: <em>Go back to the train station?</em></p><p>Sinclair nods twice. “Yeah…As always, chief, you are two steps ahead.”</p><p>Delta rumbles, which could mean anything at this point, and the hand on Sinclair’s back rises to the space between his shoulder blades, touch as soft as air. Delta doesn’t push like he usually does when he’s motioning for Sinclair to walk, just waits for Sinclair to go.</p><p>Sinclair nods again and begins to slowly do so, taking a moment to look around the room, where plenty of dead Splicers lay, shot down or burned or torn apart. He can’t say he feels bad for any of them.</p><p>He does a double-take when he sees what’s written on the wall behind Delta, the official sign for the carousel: The Chase - Folly of Dionysus.</p><p>The Chase. The fucking thing is called The <em>Chase.</em></p><p>Rapture <em>is</em> laughing at him.</p><p>Sinclair is still so tired and still in so much pain; his hand is in complete agony, his chest aches from where the Splicer had kicked him off the balcony, his head hurts from where he’d hit it against the floor after both of his falls.</p><p>As such, his walk - which would usually be a casual or confident stride, depending on how he was feeling - is nothing more than cautious and weak steps, his spine hunched over his broken hand, which he keeps close to his chest and cradled with his other arm. He almost looks like a scared child that way, which he’s absolutely mortified by underneath the pain; at least now he looks closer to the part of a Big Daddy’s <em>traditional</em> companion.</p><p>The only saving grace here is that it hadn’t been his foot that Delta had crushed; if his ability to walk had been completely taken away, he has no doubt that Delta would have already picked him up and plopped him onto his shoulders, making him look like some oversized, lazy housecat. He’s Delta’s companion, sure, but he’s no discount Little Sister.</p><p>If Ryan could see him now, he’d probably kick him out of Rapture - which should be insulting, but out of Rapture is all he’s wanted for ages now, so he’s almost tempted to grab Ryan’s skeleton from his office down in Hephaestus and shove his broken hand and ruined appearance in its face.</p><p>Delta leads him down the tunnel, hand on his back as if Sinclair will drop dead if he lets go for too long. He leaves him only briefly, and it’s to slay the Splicers they encounter on the way; Delta is on them so quickly, they barely have time to <em>think</em> about going after Sinclair. If anything, these deaths are a precaution, not a defence.</p><p>Sinclair can respect that.</p><p>Soon enough, the train station’s in sight and Delta gives a small rumble to Sinclair, which he’s fairly certain is Delta telling him they’re almost there, so he simply gives a “Mm-hm,” in reply, just to show him he’d listened.</p><p>They enter the train station through its left side door, opposite the booth where Poole has holed up, and Sinclair meets his gaze when Stanley looks over to see who has walked in.</p><p>As they step up to the platform, there’s movement in the security booth as Stanley rises from leaning against the console, coming to the window.</p><p>“Hey - hey, <em>hey!”</em> Stanley calls as Delta at first ignores him. “You forget? You can’t <em>go anywhere!</em> There’s still two little girls that gotta be dealt with, pal! What, you need me to say somethin’, fire you up? You got <em>moxie,</em> pal, now -”</p><p>Delta’s helmet whips up from where it’s leant over Sinclair and he suddenly leaves Sinclair’s side, storms over to the booth, and slams the side of his fist against the window, cracking the glass and making Stanley yelp like a scared puppy.</p><p>He jumps about a foot in the air and goes scrambling back, like he’s scared Delta’s going to smash through the window and drag him through the hole, out into the open, where he’ll beat him and force the train out of its lockdown.</p><p>“Okay, <em>okay!”</em> Stanley exclaims, panicked. “You need a break? You take a break, brother! Take all the break you want!”</p><p>Sinclair and Delta both detect the poor choice of words on Stanley’s part, but neither react to it.</p><p>Sinclair doesn’t think he’s ever seen Delta angry outside of combat - for all intents and purposes, Delta is a very easy-going Big Daddy (which sounds bizarre in of itself), who hadn’t even shown annoyance or impatience at his companion asking to stop because he needs to take a breather.</p><p>For one brief second, he’s…nervous of Delta, like it’s only just occurred to him which of Rapture’s creatures has been at his side this entire time: a Tin Man who could snap him like a twig, who now <em>has,</em> even if he hadn’t meant to.</p><p>And then Delta’s turning back around to him and returning to his side, and the hand that goes between his shoulder blades is so feather-like and not forceful at all, and Sinclair almost laughs at himself for ever being wary.</p><p>
  <em>Delta, scary?</em>
</p><p>The Delta who had looked him in the eye while Sinclair had given him his word?</p><p>The Delta who drops everything to save the little girls infected by slugs, who cures them without a second thought, and who helps them back into their vents, hands cupped under their bottoms to catch them if they slip?</p><p>The Delta that pats Sinclair on the head, careful not to hurt him, which Sinclair is starting to figure out is a gesture of comfort or praise or even just well wishes?</p><p>The Delta who offers all food and drink to Sinclair before he thinks of taking it for himself?</p><p>The Delta who had simply shaken his head at Grace Holloway and left her room after she had <em>dared him</em> to finish her off, called him a monster, and insinuated that he’d kidnapped and warped little Eleanor Lamb?</p><p><em>That </em>Delta?</p><p>At this point, Sinclair’s been wondering if they’d actually stuffed a <em>man</em> into that suit or a <em>teddy bear.</em></p><p>Still, a part of Sinclair wonders if Delta - even partly - blames Stanley for this. After all, they’d have been on their way if Stanley hadn’t stopped them with his silly, cryptic agreement, and Lamb might have not had a chance to hypnotise him again. Even if Delta does, Sinclair knows Stanley’s getting out of this alive.</p><p>Delta gently leads him over to the train, where he yanks open the door to Sinclair’s usual place of residence between stations and lets Sinclair go inside first, which he does slowly, then Delta steps in after him and shuts the door.</p><p>Sinclair feels numb; the chill of the train races to his hand and digs into his wounds, making them sting even more, and he hisses through his Steinman teeth. He doesn’t even bother going to sit on the bench - or, well, he does <em>try</em> to, but somehow his body can’t be bothered where his mind can, and he ends up sitting on the floor instead, leaning against the train’s wall while Delta stands over him.</p><p>If a Big Daddy could ever look nervous, Delta definitely does as he holds his hands together in a way that tells Sinclair he doesn’t know what to do with them or if he should approach Sinclair or not. He’s just very intent on staying in his bubble, not touching anything in case it’s the wrong thing to do - it’s actually quite endearing.</p><p>Sinclair can see it in his body language: he’s wondering if Sinclair is mad at him, if he sees him as the villain Lamb had spoken of.</p><p>Sinclair will assure him of the truth, but there’s something else that needs to be done first.</p><p>He looks down at his hand, still cradling his arm in the left one; his fingers still shake, his hand still bleeds, his bones are still broken. Accept the situation for what it is; Delta has crippled him, and it needs to be put right.</p><p>Sinclair looks up at Delta, attempting a brave smile and only getting a grimace out.</p><p>“Be honest, kid,” he says, “how’s it look?”</p><p>Delta looks to his face, to his hand, then lets out that whining groan again.</p><p>Sinclair grits his teeth and looks back to his fingers as he replies, “Well, I appreciate your honesty…”</p><p>His heart is pounding in his ribcage as he acknowledges what has to be done, and how much he’s going to <em>hate</em> it, but his hand is never going to be the same if it isn’t set right. Hell, it might never be the <em>same</em> again, but even still, it’s got to be…similar.</p><p>Which means he’s got to stop making a fist with it.</p><p>Which <em>means…</em></p><p>Sinclair swallows the thick lump in his throat, then looks up at Delta with an expression he hopes will make the man understand how badly he needs this favour.</p><p>“Okay, chief,” he says slowly, “you - you gotta do somethin’ for me. Now, my hand’s not gonna heal right if it’s stuck like this,” (his hand might not heal at all, but he can’t tell Delta that, poor thing’s freaked out enough as it is, he can’t let him think he’s permanently crippled Sinclair,) “so…you’re gonna have ta straighten my fingers for me.”</p><p>Delta looks from his hand to him, then steps back.</p><p>“I’m not lookin’ forward to it either,” Sinclair replies, lips twitching upwards in a shaky but hopefully reassuring smile, “but it’s gotta be done. Okay?”</p><p>Delta stares at him, hands still folded and kept to himself, then he lets out a low moan and turns and opens the train car, stepping out and making his hulking way back the path they’d come before.</p><p>Sinclair’s face immediately falls; he’d known Delta wouldn’t enjoy the experience (how does he think <em>Sinclair</em> feels about it?), but he hadn’t expected him to flat-out reject the favour, and he especially hadn’t expected him to just leave like that!</p><p>“Wha - Ch-Chief! <em>Chief!</em> Please, ya gotta do this for me! I’d do it myself, but…” He trails off as he looks down at his hand, weighing his options as Delta disappears back through the door they’d come through.</p><p>Swallowing thickly, Sinclair reaches toward his hand, for his crooked index finger, but his left hand shakes as much as his right does, and the mere brush of one hand against the other makes Sinclair whimper in pain and flinch his right hand away. With an irritated groan at himself, he drops his left and gives up.</p><p>He just can’t do it, he can’t force himself through the agony, but if Delta isn’t going to help him, then what can he -</p><p>In the distance comes a rumble of debris being moved about, and Sinclair stops to stare in the direction Delta had left in. There’s a distinct clatter, something falls over, there’s more shifting of rubble, and then the thumping footsteps of Delta become clear as the door to the train station opens again, the glow of his visor looking like a torch as he steps through.</p><p>Sinclair watches as Delta walks back to the train, holding items in both hands, and he breathes a sigh in relief that he isn’t being abandoned.</p><p>Stopping only briefly to shoot a look at Stanley, as if daring him to speak up again, Delta steps back into the train car, shuts the door behind him, then kneels before Sinclair and shows him what he’s got.</p><p>In his right hand is white fabric, stained but still in relatively good condition; he’s ripped the shirt off of a Splicer, though he seems to have pulled from the back as to simply pop the buttons, so it’s still in one piece.</p><p>In his left, he’s got two planks of wood. They’re not the most stable, but they don’t look rotten, more sort of waterlogged.</p><p>“Uh,” Sinclair says, looking back and forth between the offerings, then looking up at Delta uncertainly, “run that by me again, chief?”</p><p>Delta puts the shirt down, takes a plank of wood in each hand and holds them together, then taps them against each other. He shows him the shirt again, drapes it over the wooden planks, and it clicks.</p><p>“Oh. A splint an’ a sling.” Sinclair nods after Delta gives an affirmative grunt. “Okay. Good thinkin’, kid. Sorry I doubted you.”</p><p>There seems to be no hard feelings on that matter. One can’t blame Sinclair, it’s hard communicating with a man whose voice box is mangled, especially when neither knows sign language and there isn’t paper and a pen for Delta to use. He doesn’t know if those fingers could hold a pen, anyway.</p><p>He <em>acts</em> like he knows what Delta says, but that doesn’t mean he actually does. If anything, when Delta makes noise, Sinclair has no idea what he’s saying. He more or less understands Delta’s versions of yes and no, and like any survivor in Rapture, he knows what it means when he roars, but that’s about it. The rest of their communication relies on Delta’s hand gestures and Sinclair’s ability to decipher them.</p><p>Delta shifts to sit opposite him rather than kneel, the <em>clang</em> of his heavy suit making the floor vibrate, then he looks to Sinclair’s hand and simply stares, and Sinclair realises he’s waiting for the go ahead from him to proceed.</p><p>Sinclair swallows thickly, his shirt clinging to his skin from where he’s begun to sweat profusely again, and he has to give himself a mental pep talk.</p><p>What’s about to happen is a good thing; it’ll hurt and he’ll probably say a few ungentlemanly things, but if he wants his hand to heal properly, if he wants to be able to hold a pen again, then Delta’s got to realign his bones (if, of course, they aren’t just tiny bits by now).</p><p>Hand still trembling, he exhales deeply, then holds his arm out to Delta.</p><p>“Alright,” he says softly, more like breathing the word out.</p><p>Delta takes his arm in his left hand, careful not to cause more pain as he gently guides Sinclair’s hand closer, then Delta’s right hand is rising up and moving toward Sinclair’s broken fingers -</p><p>“Wait - wait, wait!”</p><p>Delta looks up, taking his hands off of Sinclair immediately.</p><p>Sinclair doesn’t say anymore; he shuffles closer to the small collection of supplies they keep on the cart for when they’re travelling between stations, nothing but food and drink to replenish strength. He swipes aside a crème cake and grabs a bottle of fine gin that’s laying on its side.</p><p>He holds it out to Delta and requests he open it, which Delta does after a moment of confused hesitation, and Sinclair thanks him, then he brings the bottle to his lips and drinks until the neck of the bottle is empty.</p><p>Delta watches in silence, patient as always as Sinclair takes in some liquid courage, then Sinclair puts the bottle down on the floor nearby, wipes his mouth on a handkerchief, then nods shakily at Delta.</p><p>“Alright, chief. Ready. And, ah, I apologise in advance for anythin’ I might say.”</p><p>Delta stares for a second to check if he really is ready this time (or, perhaps, to prepare <em>himself),</em> then takes Sinclair’s arm again. His hold on it is loose enough that it doesn’t hurt, but tight enough that Sinclair can tell he’s trying to anchor him, to stop him thrashing and tearing his hand away from Delta the moment it begins to hurt.</p><p>Carefully, Delta’s hand moves to Sinclair’s, he checks for any sign that Sinclair is going to tell him no again, then he takes hold of Sinclair’s thumb between his own and his index finger.</p><p>Sinclair is already hissing in pain, head tipping downwards and eyes squeezing shut as the pads of Delta’s thumb and finger close around his own thumb, crooked and still bent at the joint, which now has a significant bump in it, and then Delta begins to push on the joint and pull it out of its bent state, and Sinclair slaps his free hand over his mouth to muffle the shout of a curse that escapes him.</p><p>Tears begin to develop in his eyes involuntarily and he shuts his eyes even tighter to stop any unnecessary crying; he can’t let Delta see him with tears streaming down his face again because that’ll make the big lug feel worse and he might stop, and Sinclair certainly doesn’t want to be seen in such a state.</p><p>Delta pushes on the joint until the thumb slowly straightens itself, the bones inside cracking as they shift with Delta’s instruction, then Delta has to realign the thumb with the rest of the hand as it’s practically popped out of place, and so he sets his fingers to the side of Sinclair’s thumb, between that and his index finger, then <em>shoves</em> - all without looking to Sinclair’s face.</p><p>There’s a distinct <em>crack,</em> then another, and Sinclair nearly sobs into his palm.</p><p>When there’s a moment of pause, Sinclair swallows thickly, blinks back tears, then takes his hand away from his mouth.</p><p>“You’re - You’re doin’ good, sport,” he says, even though he refuses to look toward his hand. He swallows again. “K-Keep it up.”</p><p>Delta moans inside of his helmet; he doesn’t want to do this, he doesn’t want to hurt Sinclair any more than he already has, but he’s caused this mess, so he needs to fix it.</p><p>Sinclair covers his mouth again as Delta’s hand moves toward his once more, this time going to his index finger.</p><p>It seems to be the most crooked out of all of Sinclair’s digits, which doesn’t fare well for Sinclair’s poor heart, which already feels as though it’s going to break out of his ribcage with how hard it’s pounding. He wishes they had any sort of anaesthetic to put him under, so he could just skip this part and wake up to find Delta has finished patching him up, maybe sitting by him to wait for him to open his eyes, just to make sure he’s alright. He could drink himself into a stupor, knock himself out that way, but then he’ll wake up in an even worse state; he’s never handled hangovers very well, and Rapture is the last place he wants to get absolutely smashed in.</p><p>That will wait until they’re topside; he and Delta will share drinks then.</p><p>The pads of Delta’s finger and thumb close around the lower joint of his finger and Sinclair squeezes his eyes shut, turning his head away as Delta begins to pull and push it back into working order.</p><p>Sinclair is moaning and cursing into his palm, the pain sharp and numbing at once, he can <em>hear</em> the distant <em>cracks</em> as his bones shift.</p><p>Hell, Delta can <em>feel</em> the bones shift, even through his thick gloves. He recalls feeling Sinclair’s fingers break in his grasp, how the digits had changed shape as he’d squeezed them together into Sinclair’s palm, hard enough for Sinclair’s nails to cut into his own skin. He wills himself not to think about it, lest he start to hear the echoes of Sinclair’s screams in his mind, and instead concentrates on adjusting the shape of Sinclair’s finger.</p><p>He manages to straighten the joint, then goes to the other one, and trying to push this one into place makes Sinclair cry out into his hand and shift suddenly to press his face into the bench seat beside him.</p><p>Delta glances at him, then reminds himself that watching Sinclair instead of ignoring him will make this harder for the both of them, so he gets back to work, listening as Sinclair’s fingertip <em>clicks</em> back into place, bones realigning. He tries to push the finger into place at the knuckle, but the joint is stubborn and two tries and two more muffled cries from Sinclair’s mouth pushes Delta into having to slam his palm against the finger’s base to shift it back to where it should be - and Sinclair all but screams bloody murder into his hand.</p><p>It works, the finger shifts, and it more or less looks better. Reddening, purpling and swelling, but better than crooked and out of place.</p><p>The middle finger is, perhaps, the one that looks the most foul out of all of them at first glance, all because the tip of Sinclair’s finger has bent <em>outwards</em> rather than inwards with the joint, earlier caught upon the edge of the circular metal stamp on Delta’s palm; when Delta had pressed on his hand, the metal had pushed into the joint, bending it backwards and having Sinclair’s finger point in the wrong direction.</p><p>Sinclair had <em>definitely</em> felt that one.</p><p>Besides that, it’s just like the others: stuck in place, still curled toward the palm, refusing to budge from the pain.</p><p>Delta rectifies this, snapping the backwards joint back into place, pulling the digit out from its curled position, beginning to force the finger into straightening, all while doing his best to ignore Sinclair’s sounds of agony.</p><p>The noises of pain get louder and higher, and Delta realises the mistake he’s made: the middle finger dictates the movement of every other digit on the hand, discounting the thumb, and straightening it fully means the index, ring and little fingers must also move to compensate, it’s simply how the muscles work. And so his choice to move Sinclair’s middle finger next has forced his other two fingers into moving as well, and they’re both far more broken than this one, particularly the little finger, which is borderline diagonally pressed into Sinclair’s palm.</p><p>Delta gives a low moan from inside his helmet, a noise of regret.</p><p>Without lifting his head, Sinclair takes his hand from his mouth to wave it idly at him, a silent way of telling him not to worry about it, just get on, then he takes his glasses off from around his neck, puts them down, then quickly pushes them onto the seat next to the one he’s been leaning into.</p><p>With them out of the way, he uses his free hand to rip off the clip on his tie and wrestle open the knot at his throat. Sinclair pulls the tie from his collar, does his best with one hand to bundle it into a ball, then shoves it into his mouth to bite down on. Then he lays his arm down on the train seat and pushes his eyes onto his sleeve, his nose and mouth pressing into the seat’s cushion, his hallowed breathing hissing against the material.</p><p>Delta looks at the hand, surveys it, then stops his work on the middle finger. It’s straightened at its two joints, but kept bent at the base, as to not bother the other fingers.</p><p>That means moving onto the ring finger; this one’s jammed against the palm. For a moment, Delta struggles to get his thick, gloved digits to grasp it in such a way that he can pull. It doesn’t help that the hand is lubricated with the blood that had dribbled out as the skin had split.</p><p>He eventually gets a grip on it, which unfortunately means pressing on Sinclair’s little finger, the appendages so close together that there’s simply no space for him to squeeze his finger between them. He hears Sinclair all but sob into the train’s seat and he gives a guilty rumble to apologise.</p><p>The ring finger is pulled out from under the palm, where Delta goes about straightening the lower joint before going to the fingertip. The joints are stubborn and the angle is awkward, but Delta eventually gets them to move, each with a distinctive <em>crack</em> that gets punctuated with a groan from Sinclair.</p><p>Then there’s the little finger. Its injuries are like a fusion of that of the ring and index fingers’; it’s crooked and definitely dislocated, pointing near-diagonally toward Sinclair’s thumb, but it’s also tightly pressed into Sinclair’s palm. Only one of its joints is bent too, and Delta doesn’t know if that makes things better or worse - for either of them.</p><p>Sinclair’s arm is shaking in his grasp, instincts desperate to get the limb away from Delta, but Delta holds him steady. He’s nearly done, it’s nearly over.</p><p>The little finger proves tricky to get a hold of too, it’s pressed so tight against the palm and it’s covered in blood, but he manages. For this one, Delta is forced to give it one, sharp tug to get it out of place, where the palm is so determined to bury it.</p><p>The <em>snap</em> that comes out of the joints practically echoes in the train car, so loud for the smallest finger, and Sinclair gives another long, muffled scream into the balled fabric of his tie.</p><p>While he’s screaming, Delta takes the moment to pull the finger back into place so it would no longer be stuck diagonally, and the <em>crack</em> that sounds only slightly drowns out Sinclair’s muffled shriek.</p><p>With the little and ring fingers dealt with, Delta returns to the middle finger and straightens it.</p><p>Sinclair’s fingers are done, so Delta goes to straighten out his palm next, which he does with another forceful push.</p><p>The hand looks better, at least; everything’s been straightened out, which is as positive as it’s going to get, really. The hand is still swelling quickly, Sinclair’s blood is smeared and drying on the skin and tucked under and around his nails, Delta swears he can see bruising imprints of his own hand on the back of Sinclair’s. It’s a good thing Sinclair’s business ventures never involved any sort of hand modelling, otherwise Delta would have to break the news that that is very much over.</p><p>Truth be told, Sinclair more than likely needs surgery, but they’re far from any surgeon these days. The last Sinclair had heard, Steinman had been put down by some kid - not that, of course, he would have trusted that man with anything like this. It’s been a long time since Sinclair had gone to him for dentistry, and judging by how insane Steinman had been at the end, he would’ve probably dubbed it ugly and tried to cut it off or replace it with his foot or something.</p><p>Delta keeps hold of Sinclair’s arm as he reaches for their bundle of food and drinks, picking out a bottle of whiskey from the lot, then he turns to Sinclair and carefully prods his shoulder to get his attention.</p><p>Sinclair lifts his head to look at him, eyes mottled with dried tears that had leaked out against his will, and Delta holds up the bottle and gives it a little shake to indicate it.</p><p>He holds it over Sinclair’s hand and uses the bottom of the bottle to point at it.</p><p>It takes a moment, then Sinclair gives a muffled, “Oh,” and nods.</p><p>Delta momentarily releases his friend so he can get the bottle open, during which Sinclair’s arm is poised in the air, shaking faintly from agony and the chill of the train car, then Delta takes hold of his forearm in his large hand again.</p><p>With the other hand, Delta pours the whiskey over Sinclair’s wounds.</p><p>The burn is immediate, and Sinclair inhales sharply through his nose and all-but slams his face down into his arm again, giving a low moan of pain into his tie, fingers of his left hand tightly gripping the edge of the seat.</p><p>The alcohol in the whiskey digs in deep, it feels; the only disinfectant they’ve got on hand right now (no pun intended). The pigment of the blood lightens as the still-wet sections are washed away, raining down to the train compartment’s floor, while some of the dried stains remain.</p><p>Delta would scrub them clean if he weren’t so concerned about harming Sinclair any more than he already has. Besides, if he scrubs too hard, he might accidentally knock something out of place again, and then they’d be taking steps back rather than forward.</p><p>Turning Sinclair’s hand over carefully, to make sure every last wound is seen to, Delta goes ahead and uses the whole bottle, just because he wants to be thorough with the clean, wants to make sure Sinclair’s wounds are the most cleansed they can be, until the blood is just ugly, blotchy shading on Sinclair’s skin. He sets the empty bottle aside, then gently moves Sinclair’s arm up and down to waft his hand through the air in slow, small jerks, to try and dry the alcohol.</p><p>He lets Sinclair’s arm go - which lowers slightly as it aches from being suspended in the air for so long - and goes to the Splicer’s shirt that he’d taken earlier. He rips off a sleeve, then rips that in half length-ways. He does the same with the other one, only this time he rips off another, thinner strip besides initial two.</p><p>He carefully brings Sinclair’s fingers together to stand side-by-side, then he wraps the thinnest strip of shirt sleeve around Sinclair’s palm, over the wounds cause by his nails, to act as a bandage and lessen the chance of infection. He ties it off, hoping the Splicer he’d stolen the shirt from hadn’t been anywhere too murky.</p><p>Then Delta picks up one of the wooden boards he’d brought back with him. He positions it under Sinclair’s hand, then rumbles to get Sinclair’s attention.</p><p>For a moment, he’s worried Sinclair has passed out again, since he’s slumped and his face is still hidden and he’s no longer gripping the edge of the chair, so he puts down the board and carefully shakes his shoulder.</p><p>Sinclair flinches and lifts his head, looking to Delta questioningly; Delta can’t work out if he’d actually passed out, if even briefly, or if he’d just gone to his happy place or something to escape the situation.</p><p>It doesn’t matter in the long run, so Delta picks up the board and puts it under Sinclair’s hand again, then he uses his free hand to reach for Sinclair’s other arm. He guides it from the bench to the board, showing Sinclair where to put his hand.</p><p>Sinclair nods and holds the wooden board under his hand, hissing as he presses it against the skin.</p><p>Delta puts the other board on top of Sinclair’s hand, then takes one of the strips of fabric he’s torn from the shirt sleeve. He holds one end in the same hand as he holds the board, towards the top of Sinclair’s palm, then he wraps the fabric around the two boards so they lay snug against Sinclair’s skin. He ties it off, then grabs another strip and ties this one lower down on the limb.</p><p>Delta does this with all four remaining strips of fabric taken from the Splicer’s sleeves, so the entire hand is now straight and being forced to remain so betwixt the boards. He makes sure to tie them tight enough to work, but loose enough that it doesn’t cause further agony; it’s not quite as good as tape, but it’s the best he can offer.</p><p>He guides Sinclair’s right arm closer to its owner so it’s cradled against his chest, hand resting under his collarbone, then Delta uses the rest of the shirt as a sling, tying it off at Sinclair’s shoulder.</p><p>Delta sits back to review his work; it isn’t quite at expert standards, but he thinks he’s done alright in a fairly post-apocalyptic city, with no nearby doctors to consult or hospitals that still contain their equipment. He doesn’t think he wants to see an x-ray of Sinclair’s hand, anyway; it’ll just make him feel worse.</p><p>There’s silence in the train car for a few, tense moments; Sinclair looks like he’s going to pass out at any second, and Delta readies himself to catch him if he does, lest he hit his head against something. He can lift Sinclair with ease, so if Sinclair passes out, Delta will lay him down on the train’s seats so at least he’ll be comfortable.</p><p>He doesn’t pass out, however, merely raises his left hand to his mouth and spits out the ball of wet fabric that had once been his pristine tie. Sinclair grimaces at it, embarrassed at himself for his rash decision, and he tosses it down on the floor.</p><p>“…Well,” he says, punctuating the silence, “this has really been somethin’, hasn’t it?”</p><p>Delta moans softly in his helmet, keeping his hands to himself again.</p><p>Sinclair takes out his handkerchief, uses it to wipe his face clean, and stuffs it back into his pocket. He picks up the bottle of gin he’d drank from earlier, then looks to Delta. He looks him up and down, then nods to the spot beside himself.</p><p>“C’mon, chief. Come sit a spell, before your brain explodes from all the overthinkin’ you’re doin’ over there.”</p><p>Delta looks up; he’s evidently worried about how he’s being perceived again, the sweetheart that he is, and Sinclair has to nod to the spot once more.</p><p>“Don’t make me <em>beg</em> now, son.”</p><p>Delta hesitates, then moves over and sits against the train car’s wall. There’s not much space between Sinclair and the doors to the driver’s cabin, so Delta’s leg touches Sinclair’s, and he’s doing his best not to jostle Sinclair’s arm.</p><p>Sinclair brings the bottle of gin to his lips and drinks down enough to stop his throat from feeling so damn raw, then he looks to Delta out of the corner of his eye.</p><p>The big lug is looking downwards, if the way his helmet’s porthole is angled is any indication, and Sinclair can practically smell the guilt radiating off of him. His hands are resting on his legs; Sinclair can see the lightly-glistening patches of his blood on Delta’s fingers. He imagines Delta might go trying to wash his hands of it in some water or something later.</p><p>Sinclair looks up at Delta’s helmet, then reaches over and uses the bottle to bump Delta’s arm.</p><p>Delta can’t move his neck with that helmet on, but there’s a slight tilt to the headgear that lets Sinclair know Delta is looking at him.</p><p>“Now,” Sinclair says, casual as you please, “I know you’ve been picked apart like a corpse in the desert under a flock o’ buzzards beneath that armour, but you’re still a man, and <em>any</em> man can appreciate good <em>liquor</em> after a rough day.”</p><p>Sinclair shakes the bottle at him in offering, then sets it down and reaches for the clasp on Delta’s helmet nearest to him.</p><p>“May I?” He asks before he makes another move.</p><p>He can feel Delta hesitate again.</p><p>Any time Delta has popped open his helmet to consume food or drink, he has done so in the privacy of the driver’s cabin up front, and Sinclair respects him enough not to have ever peeked at what lies beneath that dome, even though he’s curious to hell and back of what Delta looks like under there. He’d like to stay in the big guy’s good graces, after all, and judging by what he knows of the Big Daddy process, he can understand why Delta might like to hide himself away.</p><p>After a few moments, Delta gives one of his affirmative sounds, and Sinclair gets to his feet, hissing lightly as he reminds himself not to use both hands, pressing his palm down on the bench beside him to help haul himself up.</p><p>He wobbles a bit when he gets up, briefly disorientated, then he stands before Delta and goes for the clasp on the other side of Delta’s helmet, since only his left hand is available to him right now.</p><p>Delta handles the other one, and together they undo them and lift. The pneumatic seals let out a long hiss of air as the helmet comes loose, and Sinclair starts to pull it upwards, guided idly with Delta’s strength.</p><p>Just as he starts to see something in the steadily-growing gap, Delta’s free hand shoots up and slaps itself onto his helmet, over where his forehead might be when the helmet is in proper place. This stops it from being lifted any higher, and Sinclair gives an understanding nod.</p><p>“Not to worry, sport,” he says, leaving Delta to hold his own helmet so he can pick up the bottle of gin. “I hear ya, loud an’ clear.”</p><p>Sinclair returns with the bottle, which he carefully inserts into the gap they’ve made; due to the design of Delta’s helmet, he’s forced to slot the bottle under a part of it that isn’t quite as elongated, meaning Delta will have to turn his head under there, but that’s a small price to pay, Sinclair reckons, for good booze.</p><p>Out of respect, and to ease Delta’s already-frazzled mind, Sinclair stands up straighter than would be easy to work with, even going as far as turning his head away, so that he doesn’t accidentally see something Delta doesn’t want him to.</p><p>He feels the lip of the bottle bump into something, which he hopes is Delta’s mouth, and he stops moving just in case it isn’t.</p><p>Something shifts the bottle - once to the side, then forwards - and the liquid sloshes against the glass, which Sinclair feels against his palm, then Delta makes another affirmative grunt, this one muffled, so Sinclair tips the bottle the best he can.</p><p>After a moment, he hears Delta gulping.</p><p>“Atta boy,” he says, if only to say something.</p><p>There’s a slight awkwardness in just standing there, listening to Delta gulp down sips of gin, but he feels like they’re passed the stage where they dwell on anything about their partnership being out of the ordinary. It’s <em>weird</em> that one of Rapture’s businessmen has a Big Daddy at his side at all, as a willing bodyguard and companion and not a slave, so honestly, who cares about anything that comes next?</p><p>The helmet wobbles slightly in Delta’s grasp as he adjusts to holding it with one hand, for Delta’s other hand comes up and grasps the bottle, and Sinclair thinks he wants it and starts to let go (fuck it, he can have it, they’ve got merlot laying around too), but then he realises Delta’s hand is pressed over his, and it’s for a reason.</p><p>He feels Delta tug slightly.</p><p>“Had enough?” Sinclair guesses.</p><p>Delta grunts, bottle still in his mouth.</p><p>Sinclair pulls the bottle free as Delta lets go; he hears Delta gulp one last time, then the helmet goes back down with another hiss.</p><p>Delta does up the clasps, then sets his hands in his lap again.</p><p>Sinclair sits back down with the bottle, drawing a circle with it as he holds it by its neck; Delta’s taken in a decent amount, though he’d only had access to sips rather than mouthfuls, given the limited space in the gap they’d made. He’s willing to bet Delta is very much capable of downing an entire bottle if given the chance, and it actually makes him look forward to sharing a drink with the big guy once they reach topside - though, he has his own theory that Delta can’t hold his alcohol, just because it’s fun to think about.</p><p>He’ll know, in time.</p><p>“That better?” Sinclair asks, head tilted to address the Big Daddy beside him.</p><p>Delta shrugs his large shoulders and gives no more of an answer beyond that.</p><p>Sinclair eyes him for a second, then turns his head away and brings the bottle to his lips, easily ignoring the fact that it’s just been in a Big Daddy’s mouth - because, honestly, who <em>cares</em> at this point? Delta’s still a man under there, he hadn’t minded the bottle having had Sinclair’s lips on it first, and it isn’t like Delta’s put anything in his mouth that Sinclair hasn’t.</p><p>If anything, he almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of the situation: him, <em>of all</em> <em>people,</em> sharing a drink with a <em>Big Daddy,</em> especially one of Delta’s model.</p><p>At such an aspect, his past self would have laughed until he was wet in the face, and in the drawers - <em>and</em> he would’ve wiped the bottle clean.</p><p>Sinclair drinks down a hefty amount, then holds it against his knee as he thinks on things for a bit.</p><p>Distantly, he’s worried he’s going to see Delta’s green-glowing helmet in his nightmares later, but wants to believe even his subconscious is well aware that this tin can beside him would never have laid a finger on him if it weren’t for Lamb. He <em>does</em> know that, he <em>does,</em> but one doesn’t get over being chased by a Big Daddy so easily.</p><p>Hell, keeping threats - Splicers and whirly-birds and Big Daddies alike - away from Sinclair is what Delta has been <em>doing</em> this whole time, since they met in the train station, and Sinclair had looked Delta in the eye, given him his word and shaken his hand to establish their partnership.</p><p>He just hopes his dreams will warp Delta’s image into something else, so he doesn’t feel bad when he sees the big lug once he wakes up; really, it’s Delta’s <em>species</em> that had gotten him spooked, not Delta himself.</p><p>Well - he feels fine right now, sitting beside Delta in the train car, so that’s something. Maybe his subconscious will know better.</p><p>It’d <em>better</em> because if he has nightmares about Delta hurting him, then Lamb will have won, and he can’t have that. Augustus Sinclair always has the last laugh.</p><p>Sinclair puffs out a sigh, then puts the bottle down and tilts himself toward Delta so he can fish his cigarette case and matchsticks from his pocket. He gets his cigarette holder from the spot on the bench he likes to leave it on when he and Delta head out, since he doesn’t want to risk breaking it by putting it in his pocket or one of the pouches at his waist.</p><p>He sets the holder between his lips and uses the nail of his thumb to pop open the cigarette case. He picks a coffin nail and carefully pushes it into the end of the holder, which takes three tries because his hand is shaking and the holder shifts between his lips, but he manages. He goes for the matches next, then realises the problem.</p><p>“Oh,” he mumbles, looking between the matches and his broken hand, then he turns to Delta. “Ah - Chief?”</p><p>Delta’s helmet gives that limited turn to show he’s looking at him.</p><p>Sinclair shakes the matches at him. “Don’t s’ppose you could lend me a hand here?”</p><p>(That might’ve not been the best way to phrase that, even if it is quite literal at this point.)</p><p>Delta stares silently, then reaches over and pinches the end of Sinclair’s cigarette with his index finger and thumb, then - <em>very carefully</em> - lights it with the Incinerate! Plasmid.</p><p>Sinclair hears the cigarette light before he sees it, the brief waft of catching paper, then Delta takes his hand back and he sees the orange glow, along with the pinkish marks of the blood Delta’s got on his fingers. It doesn’t bother him to have his own blood on his cigarette; it’s not in his mouth and it’ll burn with the rest of the stick. Plus, it’s his.</p><p>“Oh,” Sinclair says around his cigarette holder, eyebrows rising in surprise, eyes almost crossed from looking at the same small target, “o’ course.”</p><p>He takes the holder from his lips so that he can speak properly.</p><p>“Thanks, kid,” he says, waving the matchsticks, clutched against his palm with his ring and little fingers, while the other fingers hold his cigarette holder. “Saved me a match.”</p><p>Sinclair replaces the holder between his lips, then tilts himself so he can put both the matchsticks and the case back into his pocket. Once they’re in, he sits back against the wall properly, takes a drag of his cigarette, then holds it up to Delta.</p><p>“Want some?”</p><p>Delta gives a negative grunt.</p><p>Sinclair takes it back. “Your call.”</p><p>He takes another drag, then puts the holder between his lips so he can use his only good hand to move the gin bottle closer to Delta, to remind him that he can have more - or the rest - if he wants to.</p><p>Delta doesn’t take it, so Sinclair simply leaves it.</p><p>With that, Sinclair just sits and basks in the silence, as tense and chilled as it is.</p><p>His shirt still sticks to him with the sweat of the stress of today and it’s getting to be uncomfortable, but there’s not much he can do about that; he’d left whatever luggage he’d had in his bunker in Ryan Amusements, figuring it wouldn’t matter to bring it. Most of those clothes were filthy, anyway; he’d look worse than he does now, in his shirt that sticks to him, one of the sleeves stained with his own blood, the other marred with the oil he’d fallen in, his tie a crumpled mess on the floor, its clip somewhere under the bench.</p><p>Perhaps he should have invested in another shirt…Oh, well. Wouldn’t even be able to button it properly anyway, though he doesn’t doubt Delta would’ve helped him put it on if he’d asked.</p><p>Sinclair glances at Delta, sees him staring down at his hands, then sighs through his nose.</p><p>Time to address the elephant in the room, then.</p><p>“You know, kid,” Sinclair says casually, taking his cigarette holder from his mouth and observing it, “when you’ve been in business for as long as I have, you start to think you’re somethin’ of a mind reader. Get to know how people tick, what’s goin’ on inside their heads. Helps in knowin’ how to talk to ‘em. Now,” he looks at Delta, eyebrows raised, <em>“obviously,</em> I’m not, especially not with a fella whose mind was just out of his control, but I <em>do</em> know a man drownin’ in <em>guilt</em> when I see one.”</p><p>He takes a drag of his cigarette, watching Delta’s reaction.</p><p>Delta’s shoulders slump, even more so than they’d done before, and he gives a soft, drawn-out moan that might be a sigh. Hard to tell in that dome.</p><p>Delta’s helmet does its little tilt, then one of his large hands lifts up and hovers over Sinclair’s arm, which makes Sinclair tense only because his instincts don’t like things going near his newly-broken hand.</p><p>With one, thick finger, Delta points at Sinclair’s hand.</p><p>It takes Sinclair a moment to realise Delta is asking a question; he takes a gander at what it is.</p><p>“This?” Sinclair says. “This still hurts like the devil, son. I’m jus’ done gettin’ teary-eyed about it.”</p><p>Delta gives another one of those sigh-sounding moans and he takes his hands back to rest them, palm-up, in his lap again.</p><p>That doesn’t sit well with Sinclair, which is funny, because he’s never given a toss about anybody else’s feelings in Rapture before. Hadn’t batted an eyelid at anyone who had come to him in tears, not even that one dame that had begged to him about her residency at the Sinclair Deluxe, going on and on about how Harry would be home soon, she knew he would.</p><p>'That awful Sinclair', in<em>deed.</em></p><p>People have said his heart is made of stone, and Sinclair has been inclined to agree with them. If there’s even a crack in that stone, letting a bleeding muscle peek out, then it does so only for Delta - which just <em>tickles</em> him. He hadn’t even been able to shoot him earlier, while his past self would have unloaded every bullet into him in an effort to get him away, so Delta’s getting <em>some</em> kind of privilege here.</p><p>Hell, maybe the big guy’s rubbing off on him. Shit’s crazy in Rapture - this might as well happen.</p><p>Such as it is, he doesn’t know much about the ways of comforting someone, but he does know people (mostly, the best way into their wallets), and so he’s confident he knows the way around Delta’s bad mood.</p><p>He nudges Delta with his elbow, even though it briefly stings his hand to do so.</p><p>“Don’t overthink it, kid, this really ain’t your fault,” he says, his tone shifting over into a friendly gentleness, to let Delta know he really isn’t mad at him. “If anythin’, <em>some</em> might say this is karma comin’ back to bite me in the behind - or, break my bones, as it were.”</p><p>He taps his cigarette holder to shake the cigarette free of ash, then goes on.</p><p>“Seemed like a fine ol’ product back in the day, that Hypnotize Big Daddy Plasmid. Now, I’m wonderin’: how’d we ever figure lettin’ folks control Big Daddies like that was a <em>good</em> idea?” He shakes his head - at himself, mainly, because he knows his past self hadn’t <em>cared</em> if it was a good idea, and neither had anyone else in charge. “It was askin’ for trouble, really. Though I don’t suppose either of us saw <em>this</em> situation happenin’.”</p><p>Sinclair cranes his neck and cocks his head to gesture not at their current debacle, but at their partnership as a whole, the fact that Augustus Sinclair and Subject Delta of the Alpha series of Big Daddies are able to sit side-by-side in a train car, legs touching, sharing drinks and lighting each other’s cigarettes, after travelling through the guts of Rapture together, taking down Splicers, rescuing Little Sisters and fighting their way to Eleanor Lamb.</p><p>“If anythin’,” Sinclair goes on, looking back to Delta, “I’m sorry you had to go through that, son. Can’t imagine it feels fine, havin’ someone else control you like that.”</p><p>Delta moans and lifts one hand to rub against his helmet, where his temple should be underneath.</p><p>“Surprised they didn’t play that trump card sooner, if I’m honest,” Sinclair adds, eyeing his cigarette to check its status, then he looks back to Delta. “Though, obviously, I’d favour them not doin’ it at all.”</p><p>Delta doesn’t look any peppier, so Sinclair nudges him again.</p><p>“I’ll be alright,” he says. “Look at it this way: soon as we get to little Eleanor, we’ll be headin’ to the surface, an’ I can get it looked at there. Not sure how we’ll explain it, of course.” He shrugs. “Say I got it caught in a machine or somethin’.”</p><p>There’s a situation to think on: Sinclair imagines himself sitting opposite a doctor and nurse, who jot down his details and ask him how the incident occurred.</p><p>“Oh,” he imagines himself saying with a casual drawl, “I got into a fight with a giant, divin’ suit gentleman - and I lost, as you can see.”</p><p>Delta gives a low groan, which sounds suspiciously like a sigh again.</p><p>Sinclair shakes his head. “Don’t feel bad about it, kid. You were made to do it, an’ I know you never woulda laid a finger on me if you had had a choice in the matter. So stop actin’ like I’m a tickin’ timebomb all of a sudden,” he gives Delta another nudge, “because I’m not mad, not one bit. Not at <em>you,</em> anyway. <em>Lamb,</em> though…”</p><p>Delta looks at him, then rumbles.</p><p>Sinclair hopes that’s agreement at that last statement.</p><p>Delta had forgiven and spared Grace, but that had been a misunderstanding. This had been <em>personal,</em> and Delta’s definitely never shied away from ripping apart threats to Sinclair’s health before. If it’d been Sinclair in his place, he would be planning to ram that drill right between Lamb’s eyes and switching it on. Delta…well, he’s a good soul, a bigger man than Sinclair, so who knows?</p><p>Whatever that rumble had meant, it hadn’t been a sound as sad as earlier, so Sinclair thinks he’s heading in the right direction. It’s probably a comfort to know Sinclair isn’t angry at him.</p><p>“Anyway,” he says, looking down at his broken hand, cigarette burning away, “only other problem we got now, chief, is that I don’t think I can head out with you anymore, what with me bein’ right-handed an’ all.” He looks up at Delta with a sad twinge of a smile. “Think I’m out o’ commission.”</p><p>Delta looks at him and moans softly.</p><p>That’s true; Sinclair can’t use his gun in his non-dominant hand, his aim will be all off, he won’t be able to hit a Splicer even if it was standing right in front of him, which means he can’t protect himself. And as well as Delta has protected him thus far when he’s needed help - getting between him and the Big Sister that had wanted to use him as a health source; ramming into the Big Daddy that had targeted him after a misunderstanding, wherein Sinclair had shot down a Splicer that had gotten too close to the Little Sister while Delta and the Daddy had fought, and the Big Daddy had identified Sinclair as the threat instead; using his own body to shield Sinclair from a previously-unseen turret throwing fireballs at them - he can’t be at Sinclair’s side twenty-four-seven, they can’t be attached at the hip.</p><p>Which means Sinclair needs to stay behind, here, in the train car, where he’ll be safest.</p><p>Delta gives a mournful groan, trying to get across how he’ll miss their little adventures, to which Sinclair just waves his cigarette at him.</p><p>“C’mon now, let’s be honest: I was jus’ gettin’ in your way.”</p><p>Delta gives a negative rumble, then lifts one of his large hands and delivers one of his signature pats to the top of Sinclair’s head, gentle and careful not to hurt him as always - and this time, Sinclair is quite certain this gesture is meant as comfort, praise <em>and</em> delivering well wishes.</p><p>It is, in the very least, a good sign that Delta’s mood has improved, since before, he’d been acting like touching Sinclair unnecessarily would make him shatter like glass.</p><p>Sinclair doesn’t bother giving him the spiel about messing up his hair; he’s already in a right state, what does a messy hairdo matter anymore? He’s not winning any hypothetical records after today.</p><p>…That being said, he <em>does</em> feel better having his hair be neat, so he does pat it down after Delta’s finished petting at it.</p><p>After he’s done, Sinclair gives Delta a friendly poke to get his attention back on track.</p><p>“Go on,” he says, “we still need to complete our end of the bargain with our <em>guest,”</em> he nods in the direction of the security booth, where he hopes Stanley has sat sweating, wondering if Delta will complete their deal, “so I guess it’s up to you now, son - and hurry. I don’t favour spendin’ any more time here than we have to.”</p><p>Sinclair breathes in, stifling the feeling of an oncoming yawn, then he props his cigarette holder between his lips and uses his index finger and thumb to rub his eyes.</p><p>He collects his holder, then says, “S’ppose it’s a good thing I’m too indisposed to come with you now cause if it ain’t havin’ a broken hand that’s doin’ me in, it’s the fact that I’m beginnin’ to run on empty. I’ll be alright, though.”</p><p>He can only blame the stress of having his bones broken - feeling every one of them snap beneath his skin - and then having them realigned without any sort of pain relief. He’s almost proud of the fact that he hasn’t passed out <em>more.</em></p><p>He’d felt completely fine before Lamb had forced Delta to chase him around, pick him up and squeeze his hand into pieces - apparently, that can really take it out of a guy. Go figure.</p><p>Delta stares for a moment, then reaches over Sinclair’s shoulders and pats the bench beside him.</p><p>Sinclair glances over at it lazily, not quite sure what Delta means by that. Does he want him to sit up there, so he’ll be more comfortable? True, he would be, but Sinclair doesn’t need Delta to tell him that.</p><p>He looks up at Delta, eyebrow raised.</p><p>It’s clear he hasn’t gotten it, so Delta tries an alternative method: he places one hand over Sinclair’s forehead, glove just barely brushing his skin, then he moves his hand downward, over Sinclair’s eyes, which shut as a natural reply to having something so close to his face, and he’s more than tempted to keep them closed.</p><p>It’s the same notion one does to shut the eyes of someone who died staring, and Sinclair understands the message now: <em>Sleep.</em></p><p>Sinclair props his holder in his mouth so he can use his only hand to gently push at Delta’s wrist, moving his hand away from his face.</p><p>“Easy, now, kid,” Sinclair says casually, taking his cigarette away from his lips, “I let you get away with the head-pattin’, let’s see if you get away with tryin’ to put me under. I’ll hang in there - an’, to be honest, I’d like ta see how this sideshow ends.”</p><p>He nods in Stanley’s direction.</p><p>Delta lets out a moan that sounds vaguely disapproving, and he reaches out and repeats the notion of trying to tell Sinclair to go to sleep. This time, he’s insistent enough that his touch is a bit more firm, and Sinclair’s head is tilted forward slightly when Delta’s hand moves down his face.</p><p>
  <em>Sleep now.</em>
</p><p>Again, Sinclair waves his hand away.</p><p>“Now - would you quit that?” Sinclair says, not at all angry, still keeping his friendliness. He can tell Delta will very much not quit that, so he tries a different approach. “We got a ways ‘til Fontaine Futuristics - I can catch my forty winks on the way there. For now, I’d like to just keep my eyes open.”</p><p>Delta stares at him; it would be a lot easier to know what he’s thinking if Sinclair could see an expression. He gets the vague idea that he’s being frowned at, though.</p><p>It’s quite endearing, really; he understands this is Delta just being concerned over the condition he’s left Sinclair in, and it occurs to him that no one’s given a damn about his condition in quite a while. A real Tin Man with a heart of gold, this one, Lamb’s attempts at damaging that image be damned.</p><p>What was it Sinclair had called him, the first time he’d spoken to him? ‘A bona fide knight in armour, complete with iron horse’? Still checks out. <em>Certainly</em> not the villain of Sinclair’s story - even if he is being a bossy boots right now. </p><p>The Big Daddy makes no indication that he’s going to stop staring or even move from his spot, almost like he’s trying to intimidate Sinclair into doing what he wants.</p><p>Sinclair almost wants to laugh - because, again, <em>Delta, scary?</em> The thought is even more ridiculous now that he’s just had the big lug try to tell him to nap.</p><p>“Remind me again what you are, chief: a Big Daddy or a Momma Hen?”</p><p>Delta lets out one of his negative noises, and Sinclair almost sincerely laughs at the thought of Delta actually replying ‘no’ to that joke. His humour is unappreciated here, it seems.</p><p>His hand starts to lift again, and Sinclair props his cigarette holder to the side of his lips, then reaches out and pushes Delta’s hand back toward him, which he can only do because Delta doesn’t use his strength against him.</p><p>As he pushes Delta’s hand, he leans toward him (the best he can without pinning his arm between them) and tilts his head, staring right up into that porthole, making a point to look where he figures Delta’s eyes are. He takes the chance of releasing Delta’s hand to pick his holder from his lips.</p><p>“Give you my word, chief, if it’ll keep you from gettin’ rattled,” he says, “I’ll rest up on the ride out o’ here. Okay?”</p><p>Delta knows what he’s doing, and Sinclair knows he knows what he’s doing: he’s reminding Delta of their first in-person encounter, back at the train station in Ryan Amusements, when Sinclair had opened up his bunker’s door and come strolling out, standing before Delta with his cigarette holder in his presently-broken hand and a casual lilt to his voice.</p><p>
  <em>(“I like to look a man in the eye when I give him my word. You an’ me, kid - we’re goin’ places.”)</em>
</p><p>If Delta can trust that word, he can trust this one.</p><p>Christ knows, Sinclair will keep to it; if he weren’t so curious about Stanley’s motives and weren’t so intent on finding out how this saga ends, he would’ve collapsed for a nap ages ago. Not to mention, of course, he’d like to keep an eye out for Delta, in case he can help the big guy with anything, should he run into trouble.</p><p>Delta gives out a noise that sounds almost like a huff, and Sinclair wonders if he’s going to argue his point anymore, but then he just gives one of his affirmative noises and starts to get up.</p><p>Sinclair nods once and sits up straight, content that he’s won, but then Delta pauses on one knee and looks back to Sinclair, who raises an eyebrow at him.</p><p>Delta shifts closer, then points at Sinclair’s pocket.</p><p>“Huh?” Sinclair asks, looking down at it, then he props his cigarette holder between his lips as he delves into his pocket, getting out his cigarette case and matchsticks again. “Oh - did you want one after all? O’ course, son, sure.”</p><p>He opens the little case for Delta and holds it out.</p><p>Delta, very carefully and slowly, with his large finger and thumb, plucks a cigarette from the collection in there.</p><p>Sinclair turns away to put his case back, and as he turns his head to look to Delta again, Delta captures his cigarette holder in one hand and holds it still, causing Sinclair’s head to do the same.</p><p>He watches, surprised, as Delta takes out the old cigarette - burned down to a stump amidst their chatting - squashes it and tosses it away, then pushes the new cigarette into place. Then he lights it with Incinerate!, and takes his hands away from Sinclair’s person.</p><p>Sinclair stares at the orange glow at the end of the coffin nail, then huffs out a laugh as he takes his holder from his lips before he drops it.</p><p><em>“Well,”</em> he says, grinning up at Delta, who looks at him with what Sinclair imagines is a smile (if Big Daddies <em>can</em> smile), “now you’re just tryin’ ta butter me up, kid. Not so much a Tin <em>Man,</em> more like a Tin <em>Gentleman.”</em></p><p>Delta pats Sinclair on the head again, then stands and turns to take his leave, pulling open the train car’s door.</p><p>“Find those Sisters,” Sinclair calls to him, “so we can get the heck out o’ here.”</p><p>Delta turns back to him and gives his own command by holding out a hand, palm facing Sinclair, and gestures at him with it twice: <em>stay here. Safe here.</em></p><p>Sinclair’s seen it before; Delta always makes sure Sinclair is safely hidden before he gathers ADAM with a Little Sister, since not only do the Splicers come in waves, but the Little Sisters panic when Sinclair gets too close, too used to having strangers try to snatch them away. Delta always finds him a spot to sit and wait, preferably somewhere nearby so Delta can keep an eye on him, lest a Splicer find him first; Sinclair prefers it when Delta finds him a spot close to the Splicers’ paths, so he can stretch a leg out to trip them, then shoot them while they’re down.</p><p>When he finds a spot for Sinclair to hide in, Delta situates him, then always gives him that hand gesture.</p><p>
  <em>Stay here. Safe here.</em>
</p><p>“No word otherwise to be spoken here, chief,” Sinclair says, toasting him with his new cigarette.</p><p>Delta is satisfied then, and shuts the train car’s door.</p><p>Sinclair sits in the silence, then sighs and takes a drag.</p><p>His hand is still hurting, of course it is, it’s <em>agony,</em> and now he doesn’t even have Delta to distract him from it. He can always call him up through the radio, like he’d done at the beginning of their partnership and when Delta had gone through Siren Alley, though he doesn’t suppose he should abuse it, no matter how much he’d like to.</p><p>His pain is his problem, now.</p><p>Speaking of the radio - it fizzles to life, catching Sinclair’s attention, and a voice comes through.</p><p>“Looks like you, ah, heh, got demoted, huh?”</p><p>Sinclair frowns. He almost rolls his eyes - he would, if they weren’t aching so much from how tired he is.</p><p>Of course, Poole had to open his mouth. Hadn’t resisted the dumb one-liners when he’d worked for Sinclair, doing his part to keep Lamb down. Sinclair had played along back then, even if he still made it clear he hadn’t wanted to hear them; now, he has no reason to be a pal.</p><p>He’d hired Stanley, but that hadn’t meant he’d <em>liked</em> him. He’d worked with Ryan, and those two had hated each other, what with Andrew disapproving of Sinclair’s business strategies and Sinclair so happily holding over his head the favours he’d done for the old boy. Until the day Ryan died, Sinclair hadn’t let him forget that he was indebted to him.</p><p>He almost misses their little spats, if only because he’d enjoyed getting that vein in Ryan’s forehead to pop out.</p><p>Sinclair sticks the cigarette holder between his lips so he can move the radio closer, then he props the heel of his shoe against the button to remain able to speak and be heard, and he frees his lips of the holder before he does so.</p><p>“Somethin’ like that,” he says, purposely dismissive.</p><p>“Camera goes on the fritz, I’m in the dark, and when it comes back, <em>you’re</em> all busted up and the big guy’s <em>real</em> upset. <em>Real. Upset,”</em> Stanley goes on, so he clearly isn’t getting the hint.</p><p>Sinclair looks away briefly to wonder how long he’d been passed out for, while Delta had been taking down the Splicers. If it’d been longer than he’d first thought, then the poor thing must’ve thought he’d accidentally killed him, maybe by treading on him or via a stray bullet or something. No wonder he’d been making that noise when Sinclair had woken up.</p><p>“And <em>you</em> <em>-</em> <em>woo!</em> <em>Someone</em> did a <em>number</em> on <em>you,</em> huh, Sinclair? So…what happened?”</p><p>Ever the nosy journalist, Stanley; Sinclair can’t expect otherwise, he knows him too well. He can picture him, poised over his notebook, ready to take notes. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s doing just that, the arrogant prick.</p><p>His questions, at least, are confirmation that he hadn’t been checking in while they’d been fixing Sinclair up and thus hadn’t seen Sinclair huddling against a train bench in agony, so in Stanley’s eyes, Sinclair’s reputation remains intact. Good.</p><p>For a moment, Sinclair thinks him an idiot for not taking the chance to find out for himself, but then he reckons Delta had played the role of the Scary Big Daddy a little <em>too</em> well, and Stanley hadn’t risked pissing Delta off even more.</p><p>It almost brings a smile to his face; there really is something <em>nice</em> about having one of those big metal lugs at his side.</p><p>“Didn’t I once pay you not to gossip?” Sinclair says, turning his cigarette holder over in his fingers.</p><p>“Sure. But that deal went and, heh, ended up sleepin’ with the fishes.”</p><p>There it is. Dumb one-liners.</p><p>Now Sinclair really does roll his eyes, even if it hurts. Stanley deserves it.</p><p>“Well…maybe we should <em>stick it</em> in a Vita-Chamber,” Sinclair replies around his smoking, taking a drag. He suddenly really needs it.</p><p>“You’re gonna pay me not to ask questions?” Stanley asks, caught between amusement and genuine curiosity.</p><p>Sinclair frowns again, getting irritated.</p><p>He’s had a rough day, can’t Stanley see that? He favours his manners, but, frankly, Stanley doesn’t much deserve them, and he isn’t in the mood to play benevolent boss this time around.</p><p>He manages to keep his cool, however, speaking in a firm tone, but not angry.</p><p>“Son, we’re <em>payin’</em> you by <em>agreein’</em> to your tight-lipped arrangement, <em>instead</em> of havin’ the big guy jus’ <em>tear</em> his way into that security booth and drag <em>you</em> out.”</p><p>“Pfft,” comes back through the radio, and Sinclair can just about imagine Stanley’s attempt at a smug smile, “he can’t do that.”</p><p>There’s a pause.</p><p>“…Can he?”</p><p>Sinclair shrugs, despite knowing Stanley won’t see it.</p><p>“Only one way to find out.”</p><p>“Ah - <em>No!</em> No, no, c’mon, Sinclair. Don’t wanna…bother the poor guy, y’know? Heh. Got enough on his plate already, finding those kids.”</p><p>“No, we wouldn’t,” Sinclair says, “but let me jus’ remind you of a couple o’ things, Stanley.”</p><p>“…Like…what?”</p><p>“Well, for starters: there is a <em>window</em> - pure, <em>fragile</em> glass - between <em>you</em> and a Big Daddy, who <em>I’ve</em> seen rip apart Splicers with his own two, good hands.”</p><p>(He hasn’t, but Stanley doesn’t need to know that part. He <em>has</em> seen Delta throw a Splicer against a wall so hard that Sinclair had heard their neck break upon impact, but, well, this description is doing well enough; Sinclair can hear him gulp nervously.)</p><p>“What, ah…what’s the second thing?” Stanley asks, his reporter side too curious not to fall for Sinclair’s tricks.</p><p>Sinclair takes a purposefully slow drag of his cigarette, which he knows Stanley can hear over the radio, and he’s tempted to open the train car to look out at him, not only to watch him squirm, but to look him in the eye as he says the next part.</p><p>“There is <em>one</em> of us here that can get that Big Daddy to drop <em>everythin’</em> and come <em>runnin’</em> back, all by tunin’ into his radio and yellin’ for help,” despite knowing Stanley won’t see, Sinclair looks in his direction with a raised eyebrow, “and it certainly isn’t <em>you,</em> son.”</p><p>There’s silence over the radio, then he hears Stanley swallow, chuckle nervously, then stumble over his words, which he still tries to make sound casual and friendly, like they’re two chums at a bar.</p><p>“Yeah, but…but you don’t <em>have to</em> do anything like that, Sinclair, cause, y’know, cause you’re perfectly safe in there! Don’t need to call for help if you’re safe!”</p><p>“That I am, Stanley,” Sinclair says, “that I <em>am.</em> In this train car, with jus’ my cigarettes, my liquor and my silence. Don’t need to <em>call</em> the big guy <em>back,</em> when I’ve got <em>those.</em> You’re right, Stan.”</p><p>There’s a moment of hesitation on Stanley’s side, he can feel it, then the radio shuts off and Sinclair leans his head back against the wall with a satisfied smirk, taking his heel off the button.</p><p>With Stanley gone, Sinclair tunes into the camera inside Delta’s helmet, to look at the world from Delta’s point of view, and sees he’s already found the second Little Sister. He’s fighting her Big Daddy now, and Sinclair grins around his cigarette.</p><p>As his left hand goes for the gin bottle, his right automatically goes to move to keep hold of the device in his lap, and he hisses in pain when he remembers why he can’t do that.</p><p>Sinclair frowns down at his broken hand, then looks back to Delta’s point of view, just as the Little Sister finishes crying over her fallen Daddy and turns to Delta, looking up at him with a big smile.</p><p>“He’s nicer than <em>other</em> Daddies!” she proclaims happily, reaching for Delta’s face as he leans down to pick her up.</p><p><em>Couldn’t agree more, kid,</em> Sinclair thinks, goes to take a sip of gin, then realises he doesn’t have another hand to hold his cigarette in the meantime.</p><p>He sighs, then puts down the bottle, glancing at his broken hand impatiently, before he’s forced to shrug it off and keep watching Delta’s point of view.</p><p>Them’s the breaks, he supposes - pun <em>fully</em> intended.</p>
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